OSABC : Lions in Blue and Silver
by LogicalPremise
Summary: The story of the Legacy Team in the First Contact War : Ahern, Kyle, Florez, Chu, and Saracino. A pre-ME1 quickfic covering some of the OC's from the main story as they go up against the Turian Hierarchy and then struggle to adapt to the changing lives they are forced into by surviving. M for violence and Ahern's mouth.
1. Chapter 1

**Lions in Blue and Silver**

_The story of a Legacy, and how a legacy dies. _

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><p><em>'The first combination of N-rate and S-Rate military forces was the team of Commodore Tradius Ahern, N7 leader of NCT Eleven, combined with that of Lord Commander Yonis Chu, commander of the AIS Reactive Force Corps. No existing team could pull together the required force, and this team had been as one long before, when they were all merely Marines.<em>

_Tradius Ahern died in fire, defying death and spitting curses as he took out a force of Reaper Brutes and Banshees that would have crippled Hammer's final approach. Michael Saracino died smiling, having stopped a terrorist at the cost of his own life. Rachel Florez, we know now, died screaming and alone, a traitor to everything the SA should have stood for due to her loyality to what the SA did stand for. Preston Kyle died in glorious revelation, opening the eyes of many to the fact that somewhere along the way, the SA had lost it's path. Yonis Chu died last week, at the age of one hundred and sixteen, surrounded by family. _

_That they left a legacy behind cannot be denied. Kyle, Ahern and Florez all shaped and moulded Shepard, while Saracino's hatred of turians led to the darkening of Florez and of Cerberus moving beyond mere black ops. THe Ahern Doctrine, the Kyle Manuver, the Chu Gambit - these are all enshrined in human military tactics, while the ships SCB Florez, SSV Chu and the dreadnaught Preston Kyle keep their names alive in a different way._

_But these five simple people were not mere legends. They stopped the turian advance at a time where all humanity was about to fall. They survived a trial that would have killed most people, in a day and age where humanity had no biotics, no omni-technology, no medigel, nothing but grit, skill, and determination. _

_We may disgaree with the politics of Saracino, the rogue actions of Chu, the violent rejection and slaughter at the end by Kyle. We may curse Yonis Chu for his actions at Arotaht with the batarian relay. Many, I suspect, have already cursed Ahern for beating them into the ground during training._

_But we cannot discharge our burden of debt to them, to the bravery and courage it took for them to face the bared might of the entire Hierarchy with nothing more than guts and trust. _

_Marines, present arms! Color guard, honors to the dead, hymn five.'_

_- Admiral David Anderson, at the dedication of the Memorial to the Legacy Team, two years after the end of the Reaper War._

* * *

><p><em>"I once asked Florez why she slept with Saracino, and she told me 'Mainly to make Kyle blush'. Bitch. - Tradius Ahern<em>

* * *

><p>"Get up, boyo. No time for slackers in our glorious Corps."<p>

The youthful face of Marine Captain Tradius Ahern glared at the heavily muscled form of Master Chief Free, cursing under his breath as he staggered back to his feet. Shaking his head once to clear it, he managed to step back into a ready position on the tatami mat, and bowed shallowly. "Ready, Master Chief." The bulky padding he wore on his shoulders and body make him feel sluggish as he hastily wiped a trickle of sweat out of his eyes.

The man in front of him towered over him, broad shoulders and thick arms mounted on a muscular barrel of a torso and legs like tree trunks. His head was almost absurdly small by comparison, thick brows and a jutting jaw the frame for a oft-broken nose and narrow, beady green eyes. His head was shorn, an Alliance 'A' tattoo on either temple, and he wore the undress bottoms of his BDU's with a crisp white undershirt barely dotted with sweat under the protective white leather vest.

"Ach, you're stiffer than a sailor in a whorehouse, boyo. Ye have to move your body with the motions, not hack about as if ye're swinging your kick like a bloody claymore." The big man flowed through a series of rapid, elegant attacks, ending with a rapid kick that elevated at the last second to swirl the air inches over Ahern's shorn scalp. "Ye're fast and ye're stubborn, and not full o' yerself, but ye still need to remember to stay focused."

Ahern nodded tightly. "Yes, Master Chief."

Free sighed, stretching slightly. "Yer – " He cut off his words, as the somewhat clunky communications pendant on his neckchain vibrated. Cursing, he placed it in his ear, eyes narrowing as he listened to some instructions that Ahern couldn't make out.

The master chief sighed. "Go rack yer gear and hustle up yer squad for evening PT after chow. Once yer done, go on leave early. Problems just came up and the brass needs me there pronto." The big man turned away, already dialing someone on his cell phone, and Ahern sighed.

Ahern nodded slowly, undoing the straps of his practice gi, even as he glanced around. Camp Lejune was the primary station for the training of all Systems Alliance marines, and on any given day was swarmed with new recruit battalions being run ragged by iron-hard drill instructors. The gleam of the arcology dome glimmered fitfully in the hazy sunlight that made it past the fouled atmosphere, the distant horizon revealing little but blackened sticks where lush forest once stood.

Earth, in the aftermath of the collapse of government and it's radical reconstruction during the Days of Iron, was not the same as the stories in old books. His father had lived through those sickening times, when humanity lost any claim to the word 'civilization' and people fought tooth and nail for mere survival. Sickness, radiation, pollution, and unrelenting wars had killed billions of people, left the atmosphere so acidic and foul it could not be inhaled for long periods without causing lung damage, and seared tens of thousands of square miles into radioactive wastelands or horrible murky toxic sludge.

As Ahern racked his gear, he thought about the things that his father spoke of, before. When the stars were just a thing to stare at in the night sky, instead of the destiny of humanity. A part of him was excited about humanity's future, and it was why he'd joined the Systems Alliance in the first place. Not for him the life of an arcology worker, or worse, a drudge on the barely livable moons of Jupiter, Saturn, or Neptune.

He wanted to get out and see space, to help humanity recover from it's stumble. His belief in the guidance of Lord Manswell and the Systems Alliance was absolute, and if the training he got as a marine was tough, it was only to make him a better protector. He'd enjoyed his years in the military so far, and had worked hard at being successful. His being promoted to captain at his age was nearly unheard of, but he'd heard flickers of whispers of lots of other promotions, and rumors of military expansion.

There wre plenty of reasons why, he supposed, the military would be expanding. The most obvious, of course, was that SA had found some trace of alien life.

Humanity, after all, did not have to wonder any longer if they were alone in the galaxy. The ruins discovered on Mars had unlocked technology beyond the wildest dreams of humanity – the ability to control energy itself, to manipulate mass and weight. Even the basics had turned human society on it's head , bringing about a world more akin to ancient science fiction stories than anything expected. Flying cars. Spaceships. Jumping between stars. Guns that shot farther and faster than gunpowder.

It had also opened the military's eyes to the fact that _something _had happened to the owners of all the tech left behind. And that if they were not alone, then someone might show up with a gun or six.

The SA had called for more marines, more sailors, more protectors, and Ahern – driven by his father's tales of a better time – had answered. It had not been easy. Like most marines, he'd graduated basic and spent a single two year tour on basic guard duty, in his case, Luna. The low gravity and lack of any threat meant he was out of shape, but he'd practiced his skills diligently, mastering not just the advanced rifle and pistol courses but actually outshooting one of the pistol instructors.

His efforts as a Sergeant in smashing a smuggling ring in his second deployment in the moons of Jupiter had gotten him a bit of media attention, and he'd upped that by increasing his skill with pistols, eventually outshooting even the famous Major Ralshon.

That little feat, along with his blossoming relationship with the daughter of Senator Dale Adkins, had gotten him tapped for a new experimental program being kicked off by the marines and (he suspected) his rather hasty promotion. The existing Special Forces, the Guard of Iron, were seen as too tightly associated with the family of Manswell to be fully adapted into the Alliance military.

While the Guard of Iron were indeed, elite, they were also weird. Alliance Command had decided to create an entirely new program for the next step in the military machine, and had selected some five thousand possible applicants.

Given that the last heavy fighting had tailed off almost fifteen years before he was even born, there were very few true 'veterans' to build a force from. Rather, the SA picked people who were young, with perfect records, and who demonstrated advanced skills. People who could be shaped into a first generation of special forces, and develop a living curriculum for further improvement.

Ahern wondered, as he walked towards his barracks, why exactly Special Forces might be needed, and it dovetailed with his concerns about what other races might be out in the galaxy. Humanity would be stupid to expect peaceful contact with something that might be entirely alien in both outlook and composition. Better to be safe than to be sorry, after all.

He arrived at the narrow barracks assigned to Echo-Three, his squad, and entered without knocking.

The barracks was simple and functional, as thousands upon thousands of Marines transitioned through Lejune every year – some staying on for training, others here for only a day or two for transfer processing or skills evaluation. Rather than stick such transients in dedicated barracks buildings or dorm-style rooms as they did permanent residents, they constructed single-squad units, arranged in neat squares around training grounds, food trucks, and transport stands.

It worked…but left much to be desired in terms of creature comforts. The barracks was about thirty feet long and half that wide, a good fifth of it taken up by the restroom and shower area at the back. Six heavy bunks, three to aside, took up the wall areas, along with heavy footlockers, while the middle was given over to a pair of tables, each with six seats. A simplified communications panel was installed next to the flat-panel TV flush with the wall.

His squad was already here.

Technical Sergeant Yonis Chu lay bonelessly on his bed, eyes closed lazily. The squad's communications specialist and tech, his features were a mix of his Ethopian mother and his Chinese father. Chu was related to the third most powerful Noble House in the Alliance, the House of Chu, but his was such a cadet branch that, combined with his mixed heritage, that he hardly considered himself noble. Technically, he was a Shang – the Chinese version of a marquis – but only Rachel called him Shang Chu, and then only to needle him. His dark hair was cut close and his narrow frame looked utterly relaxed even dressed in full BDU's.

Sitting on the bed next to him, her legs tucked away Indian-style, was Corporal Rachel Florez. A pretty young woman of mixed Hispanic and Japanese ancestry, her exotic features were fixed in boredom as she glanced up when he entered, before flicking back the manual in her hands. Florez was an enigma, sometimes flirty and lighthearted, sometimes bitchy and cutting. She was one of the two riflemen in the squad, well suited to digging into a fight. Fierce and competitive, she hated when men assumed she was weaker because she was female, and despite the big chip on her shoulder was always kinder when someone honestly complemented her. She kept her brown hair savagely tucked away in the SA bun, and her green eyes didn't stray from the tech manual she was reading.

Sitting at the table nearest him was the bulky, muscular form of Lieutenant Preston Kyle. Barely nineteen, the man was powerfully built, with long arms and legs and a graceful elegance in his motions, much like Master Chief Free. He looked up from trimming his hair before smiling gently. Hard and intelligent scanned Ahern before returning to his task. Kyle was weird, in many ways – the guy was a talented violinist and painter, doubled as both the squad medic and the squad's other rifleman, and could probably out shoot Ahern and outfight Florez at the same time. Yet he was incredibly humble, self-effacing, and almost fragile.

Snorting to himself, Ahern glanced further back. As usual, the other lazy ass, Chief Michael Saracino, was out like a light. Lanky and awkward, Saracino was hardly what one expected when they thought of Marines. His conditioning was weak, his hand to hand ability nil, and his discipline problems legendary.

He was also, even at only 20, the deadliest sniper in the entire Systems Alliance, famous for making a killshot to a terrorist from a staggering 1.9 kilometers. While fragmentary pre-Iron records existed showing a longer shot had been made in those days, Saracino had taken his shot while under heavy fire, from a moving vehicle, and in heavy rain. His promotions had been one of rewards for his skill, not due to his leadership ability or military bearing.

With a grin, Ahern slammed his foot down next to the bed, sending Saracino jolting into full wakefulness and drawing a sigh from Chu. Florez merely sighed. "What's up, Cap?"

Ahern smiled. "Chow and PT, and then early leave. Master Chief Free got a call in the middle of our beatdown session. Report back here at 0800 Monday unless something changes."

Saracino sighed. "Can't we skip the workout, Captain? Seriously, my shoulder is killing me and those hacks at Medical said it's fine."

Kyle frowned. "Exercise is a part of our daily curriculum. We can't just circumvent it." He gave a smile, and Saracino rolled his eyes.

"Kyle, you should go into toothpaste advertisements rather than the military –"

Ahern sighed. "Shut the fucking hell up, Saracino. I swear –"

Saracino interrupted. "Yes, all the time!"

Ahern opened his mouth, then closed it, then glanced at Rachel. "Why haven't you killed him for annoying you yet?"

Florez smirked. "He thinks I'm pretty."

Ahern rolled his eyes. "So's a goddamned eezo flare. I'd rather kiss that, more likely to have lips afterwards." He clapped his hands. "Exercise gear and let's hit the tarmac in ten. Quicker we get done, quicker I can get showered and head out on the town."

They mumbled (except Kyle) but obeyed, and Ahern headed to the back to dig out his own gear when Chu caught his arm gently. "What did the Master Chief leave for, if you know?"

Ahern shrugged. "Dunno, some kind of call. Why?"

The man looked troubled. "After PT, we will talk. I heard something disturbing to day and wish to know your thoughts, Captian."

Ahern nodded, then sighed and nodded. "After PT, then."

* * *

><p><strong><em>Author's Notes:<em>**

_This is not likely to be a long fic, but I don't know. It's the story of several characters - my versions of Tradius Ahern and Preston Kyle, along with three OC's – Rachel Florez, Yonis Chu, and Michael Saracino – who broke through turian lines in the mission Ahern descrbes in the Pinnacle Station DLC in ME1. _

_In my version, the mission was to prevent a turian fleet from getting a huge advantage, and was a huge turning point in the First Contact War. Given the importance of Kyle, Florez, and Chu (and I guess Ahern) to the main fic series I write, having this side piece might be interesting reading for some people. It is generally far more upbeat and less morally gritty than my other works, along with people who are, gasp, actually fairly well adjusted, except for Ahern's Tourette's Syndrome._

_Notable cameos are Jack Harper, a bit-appearance from Matriarch Benezia after the big fight, and possible both Saren and Tetrimus (prior to his fall from grace). _

_Ideas and scenes you'd like to see are welcome suggestions._


	2. Chapter 2

**Lions in Blue and Silver**

_The story of beer, and how the Cowboys suck. _

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><p>Ahern sat down wearily at the bar. "Sam , couple of Coors, if you please. Goddamned shitty day." He tossed a plastic ManswellSecure debit card on the scarred wood, and the bartender picked it up with a smile, replacing it with two bottles.<p>

_Sam's Last Stand_ was a tiny hole-in-the-wall establishment frequented by few officers. Crouched in the ruins of what was left of Jacksonville, North Carolina, it was one of a handful of badly reconstituted buildings dating back to the Days of Iron.

The US Marines had held their chain of command together better than other US military units, and had protected the last dregs of the United States federal government in horrific last stands at Cheyanne Mountain, Arlington National Cemetary, and at the wreckage of Camp Lejune. Outnumbered and outgunned, they'd fought the Guard of Iron until the last man, and even those hardbitten mercenaries and ex-criminals had remembered.

When the SA resurrected Camp Lejune, preserving as much of the rich history of the US Marine Corps, it also brought about the creation of an arcology area. Hardbitten survivors, relying on air filtration equipment cobbled together from old air conditioning equipment and shielding against UV and rads based on scrapped cars filled with scrap lead and beach sand had been the only people living in Jacksonville, and the SA had generously exfiltrated them all for better medical care.

Except one, a crusty and ancient US Marine command master sergeant calling himself Sam.

The man, half blind and suffering from malnutrion, skin cancer, burned lungs and all other sorts of ailments, had snarled down SA recovery teams, and point blank told them he'd leave when he was dead, he had a damned bar to run. Rather than force the old man off, the general in charge of the setup had found him amusing, and in return for him providing SA historians some assistance with remembering the honor and courage of the US marines, refurbished the area nearest Lejune as a civilian area, getting the man enough medical aid to live on another dozen years before passing the bar along to a retiring SA marine also named Sam. The act of passing it along to a fellow Marine became tradition, and the current owner was the Third Sam in the line.

Most of the rest of Little Jacksonville was done up modern architecture, but those who followed in Sam's footsteps had stubbornly kept the décor as it was. So the ceiling was a mix of hand-mixed tar pitch and corregudated steel, dim and rickety florescent lighting casting pools of dim radiance over a handful of battered old Bruinswick pool tables. The flatscreens on both walls were modern, of course, but the floor was solid oak plank, ancient and scarred, stained with years of beer, blood, and dirt.

Curious relics of a bygone age – street signs, bits of ecletic décor, parts of an old pre-Iron tank – were strewn about on the walls like proud trophies from the most demented hunt possible. The beer was strong, the waitresses were curvy and liable to break your jaw if you got grabby, and the rules were simple : leave brawling and guns at the door. Drink, watch football or baseball, play pool, bitch about the SA, but no fighting.

With a slow smile Ahern nursed his beer, wearing plain BDU undress with no rank markings. By long established tradition, that was a sign that he was indeed an officer, but he didn't give a shit about being one at the moment. Any officer who came in here in full uniform was liable to be asked to depart unless he was here on business.

Enlisted men sat at the battered booths around the edge of the room, or at the bar, muttering about drill instructors, orders they didn't like, or the absolute fun of patrols beyond the arcology boundaries. Much of North America was a radioactive hellhole, with all kinds of mutations making diseases and the environment lethal. Any animals that survived such hellish condtions tended to carry all kinds of filth – a simple bite of a rabid wild cat had killed a marine a few days back, ignoring the strongest antibiotics available.

Ahern was gladder than ever now he'd done his shit-patrolling on the moon. Food sucked, and the pay was bad, but you wouldn't worry about being eaten by goddamned mutant _things_ with claws as thick as rifle in the swamp-forest sludge that now consumed most of the old American South.

The door to the bar swung open, revealing Yonis Chu in civilian clothes. A pair of battered jeans and a simple black shirt, with SA combat boots and his dog tags hanging out, was all he wore, and he sat down with Ahern tiredly, taking the proffered beer.

"Tradius … this is the worst bar in the entire base. Maybe the entire continent. Quite possibly the entire universe. Why do you always, always come here?"

Ahern smiled. "I know! I fucking love it. Won't ever be a goddamned gentleman, so why waste time pretending? Beer is good, I don't have to worry about running into some prick of an officer telling me off about my fucking language, and the nachos are to die for." He swigged, wiping foam from his lips as he paid half attention to the football game on the far wall. "Fucking Cowboys…."

Cho rolled his eyes. "I would make a horribly culturally insensitive remark here… but I figure it would go right over your head. I'll simply say this is not exactly the sort of establishment officers – or noble sons – are expected to visit."

Ahern smirked. "A thousand apologies, milord. Please grant your grace unto this humble peasant—"

A long suffering sigh emitted from Chu, who then pulled out his data-tablet. "Listen. I got a call today, to head into HQ. There were people from the AIS there, doing interviews. Recruiting."

Ahern frowned. AIS was the spooks, the Alliance Intelligence Services. Some bigshot Manswell had taken over the group and was working on breaking up gangs and terrorist cells. The Black Hats were scary as fuck but usually didn't bother the rank and file unless you did something stupid, but the AIS investigated everybody.

Ahern sipped his beer. "Any ideas as to what they were looking for?"

Chu shrugged. "Sort of. They interviewed Saracino already, so I was trying to figure out if they reached out to you."

Ahern shook his head. "Nope. Fuckers are probably looking for new spooks, after that shit that went down in Azlan blew up in their faces." He tilted his head. "Why bring this up?"

Chu gestured to the datapad. "I've been using the Family connections to do some digging. Something big is up. They just had another freighter explode, this time INSIDE the Calcutta arcology. Almost half a million people exposed to eezo. Thousands have already died."

Chu scrolled. "Less than nine hours after the second bombing, the Senate voted on a package for almost a billion dollars to 'clear off available land in the Brazila Protectorate Zone for advanced warfighting training.' Brazil, Tradius. There's nothing there but ruins and glass now. Why Brazil?"

Ahern shrugged. "Why the fuck should I know or care? I don't sign on to your loony goddamned conspiracy theories, Yonis. Remember the one about thinking the SA transferred you to my combat squad to have Saracino bump you off?"

Chu flushed, and folded his arms. "I never said…never mind. Look. So I've been wrong before. Leapt to conclusions. This is not the same thing."

Ahern tilted his head, then took a swig. "Why not?"

Chu tapped his pad. "The package to investigate the formation of elite units, special forces? Tied to this rider. So is an expansion of the AIS budget to hire five thousand new agents. And along with that to mothball over two hundred older ships and lay down the keels on five hundred replacements with the newer drives and the A-series of kinetic barrier shields that just hit the production lines. Billions, maybe tens of billions of dollars worth of investment. The SA is stingy at the best of times, so why throw money around all of a sudden?"

He glanced around. "Family Chu is nervous. They just announced yesterday a FIFTEEN year moratorium on any more Mass Relay openings after Shanxi's far Relay scheduled for next year."

Ahern shrugged. "It's above my paygrade. I think about fighting, fucking, and finding a place to eat and sleep. Anything beyond that, Yonis, can be put off."

Chu arched an eyebrow. "You really don't even wonder? At the expansion, the way they're throwing money away?"

Ahern drained his beer and signaled for another, pausing only to smile vindictively as the QB for the Cowboys was sacked hard enough that his helmet went flying. "Honestly, Yonis? I figure either some stupid asshat on one of the outer big colonies did something stupid like rebel, or we've got some indication of aliens. That means focusing on fighting and staying alive. I was actually thinking about it earlier." He shrugged. "I don't have a reason to care."

Chu shrugged. "I do. When I got tapped for this whole thing, with your squad, the op against the terrorists, it was the first time I got to really fight. When you put together this idea about getting into the Special Forces, I went along because I figured it would be interesting, but the AIS sounds even _more_ interesting."

Ahern realized now where this was going, and grimaced. In less than a week, the SA would start the trials for the squads that would attend training to become elites. There were no real details yet – if Chu was right, the facility they would be training in was still to be built.

But a good showing would enable a definite slot in the training and building of such a special ops group. That's what Ahern wanted, and to get it he needed the best team possible. He figured he could probably get by with two people he didn't know as well as Chu or Saracino, but it would mess up everything for Rachel and Kyle.

Ahern opened his fresh beer. "How long until they expect an answer? The AIS, that is."

Chu shrugged uncomfortably. "They wanted an answer today. I told them about my situation – with the squad, with my Family - and they said they'd be in touch. But if they call me up tomorrow and ask me in or out, well. I'm not sure there's a place for me in the SA military in a war, Tradius. I'm a good fighter, not great. I'm good at comms, but not … well, not the absolute best. I'm pretty good at ECM remote hacking, but not great…"

Ahern snorted. "I'm sorry, I can't hear you very well over the sound of your false fucking modesty. _Bastard_."

Chu laughed, but quickly sobered. "Look, I don't wanna cut out on you guys. We've been through a lot together, and even if Kyle is Jesus Christ Reborn and Saracino makes me want to choke him, I find that am comfortable." He paused, examining his beer bottle.

When he spoke, his voice was lower, more bitter. "Pretty sure Saracino won't want to join anyway. Y'know with the … Rachel and all." He exhaled. "But I'll be straight with you. My name means I won't have a real career in the Marines, and you know it. They aren't going to let even a minor son of the Third House die in a ditch somewhere, and if they do, I think it would be to incite the Family into some kind of action. So I either rot in a base or get made into a sacrifice. That's not a future I can get behind!"

Ahern nodded, glancing at the game again. Chu continued. "And you know Saracino will be wasted even in special forces, assuming he doesn't pop off at the mouth and get knifed in a bar."

Ahern grinned. "Maybe he will. Couldn't hurt the gene pool. Jesus Christ, can you imagine what kind of asshole a kid of Michael Saracino would be?"

Chu frowned. "I am being serious."

Ahern exhaled heavily and shook his head. "Alright. Shit, maybe you are right. We got this thing going because I wanted the best. You're the best at what you do, and so is he. Making the transfers, the drills, the bullshit. Getting it all set up and good to go it took a lot of time, Yonis. You walk away from this and while I can't say it will blunt my chances much, Florez and Kyle don't have other skills neccesary to get picked up."

He narrowed his eyes. "Before today I'd say you were rock solid about the chance to get in on the ground floor of an SA special ops group. Now you're full of doubts. Is this really about the possibility that shit is going to get real, or is it more about the chance that you can get out from under the boot of your old man if you vanish into an AIS spookhouse?"

Chu shrugged. "They aren't mutally exclusive. I'll stick until the AIS asks me again, maybe just getting through these trials or exams or whatever they have planned will get you the call. But I won't tie myself down, Tradius."

Ahern only nodded, silent for a long moment. Then he tipped his beer in Chu's direction. "Ah, fuck it. Yonis, if it fucking happens, it fucking happens. We had a good year together, kicking ass and taking names. It got us this far, got us all promotions – even if Rachel lost hers by being stupid and pouty. If you can get your shit into the order you want, fuck! Go for it." He drank deeply.

Yonis nodded, taking his first sip of the beer. "I sense a 'but' , Trahern."

The other marine shrugged. "Assuming you are right. Assuming shit is coming down the line. Aliens, rebellions, or the return of the ghost of motherfucking undead Ardiente. I'm not sold on this idea that the SA is building up for a threat. It could be the corps pulling their strings, could be the colonies need more work and we're just building up to a sustainable economy."

He frowned. "But if you are right, buddy, you'll just be the tip of a different spear than I will, Yonis. Is that really what you want? The AIS isn't going to let you sit in a nice comfy office and play whack-a-conspiracy with your brain. Saracino, for all his goofy bullshit, is a fucking killer. The AIS is looking for the same thing as the Corps. No guarantee they won't sacrifice you either, you know. Mutally shitty outcomes if you ask me."

The lanky man shrugged himself. "I have no idea what I want. Except to get away from bullshit. The way the Family acts is … too much for me. And frankly? I don't mind a fight, I simply feel that I'm less likely to end up as cannon fodder on the front lines of some fucking colonial revolt if I'm in the AIS."

Ahern chuckled. "Profanity? From you? Fucking incredible." Another sip of beer. "Alright. Lemme see if I can talk to old man Adkins and get him to unclamp some info. If you're right? If shit is coming? I'd take the AIS job. If it's not, then you should at least stick around long enough for our team to make it to the SpecOps. That's all I'm asking."

Chu sighed. "I.. alright, Trahern. I'll do that." He took another tentative sip of the beer, then grimaced. "Not exactly Riesling."

"Limp-wristed slant-eyed uppity fop."

"Uncultured cretinous savage."

The two clinked bottles.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Author's Notes:<em>**

_Things are moving along slowly. _


	3. Chapter 3

**Lions in Blue and Silver**

_The story of unintended consequences, and of paranoid preparations_

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><p>Ahern sat, brooding.<p>

The assembly hall at Camp Lejune was massive, almost a mile long and at least half a mile wide, supported by the primitive mass-effect repulsor pillars that hummed and bulked here and there along the walls. Banners of ancient military units that formed the core of the current SA military thinking – American Marines, German Heer, Japanese SDF – were set in positions of honor atop the high sides of the platform at the front and center of the building.

Huge murals depicting scenes of valor and bravery had been sprayed upon the massive long walls, making the entire hall look like a disjointed version of Valhalla, given the fact that there were thousands of seated soldiers arranged in semicircular rows around the central plinth.

Ahern pulled at the collar of his dress blues irritably. The new SA uniform had moved away from the mix of Marine and Heer designs, to a new blue abomination trimmed in gold and with actual leather paneling. He felt like some kind of third-rate fascist goon in this getup, and it didn't help that the Commissariat version looked similar except for high boots and that it had been designed by the Boss-Armani Corporation.

Hugo Boss had not only designed the uniforms of the Nazi SS, but the Sao Paulo Guard. Ahern felt very strongly that giving them a contract for the SA uniform was just asking for trouble, but no one asked him.

The previous week had been one of polishing existing skills, getting uniforms up to spec, and endless completion of all manner of paperwork. Although paperless options were uquibitous, like Greentooth wireless datapads and voice-driven constructed-intellect systems that could almost beat a Turing test simply asking the questions and recording them, the SA insisted on paper.

Tradition, they said. Goddamned backassward waste of time and trees, he said. And given that there were more people than trees on fucking Earth nowdays, paper seemed especially stupid.

It was worth all the hassle, though. Out of some fifty-seven thousand applicants, only five thousand had been chosen for Phase One. A thousand five-man teams. Of those thousand teams, a good two hundred had already been eliminated and dismissed, and another three hundred reassigned to other postings with promotions. A nice bonus, to be sure, but not the holy grail of SpecOps. Putting up with the paper had cut the competition in half.

By the end of the week, Ahern knew their number would be decimated or worse – rumor had it that they were really only looking for maybe ten teams, or fifty men.

The best one percent, out of the best one percent. That was a motto he could get behind. A little more badass than merely 'the best of the best'.

He glanced around the table at the faces of his teammates. Yonis was reading his datapad. Kyle was checking his uniform for the nine hundredth time. Saracino was staring at Florez, who appeared to be meditating.

He didn't have any real concerns about Yonis Chu. The man was both book-smart and crafty, and while his dedication to the plan was wavering a bit, he had known Yonis all his life. If it really came down to it, he fully expected Yonis to tell the AIS to go fuck themselves, and then use his name to get in later on if it turned out SpecOps wasn't his cup of tea.

Yonis had a big thing for conspiracies, and maybe their conversation yesterday was his way of just letting Tradius know how nervous he was. He'd dealt with Old Man Chu enough times to realize that the Family Elder was not really human, but a massive walking penis cunningly disguised in human shape. Anyone who set up his own father to be killed off by the Commissariat and then complained when the life insurance didn't come through wasn't worth pissing on if they were on fire.

For Chu go into a safe career in the Marines as some aide-de-camp or d'attache affairs was one thing. To get involved in highly dangerous Special Operations or the AIS was another, and Chu had a point that the AIS would have much better luck in fending off Old Man Chu's outrage once he learned the truth than a brand new command with no big Names backing it. Hell, half the reason Ahern had asked Yonis to join is that he'd be the biggest Name in the unit.

None of that affected Yonis' ability to perform, which is all Ahern really cared about.

Kyle, of course, looked immaculate, posture perfect, eyes glinting with intelligence. Bastard probably slept three hours a night. On paper, Kyle was the most likely shoo-in for the SpecOps. Brilliant, multi-talented, and a physical god, Kyle could master anything in short order. His flexibility would allow him to thrive, while his combination of mental and physical excellence was exactly what typified the best special operations soldiers of the past. The fact that he would be a perfect poster-boy for whatever crumbs of truth the public got fed wouldn't hurt either. Performance wise, Kyle would be as close to humanly perfect as possible. No worries … at least in terms of that.

Kyle's biggest problem was his lack of confidence. He wasn't a leader, preferring to follow someone else's lead. His promotion to Lieutenant was pro-forma BS to snap up good officer material and Kyle knew it, knew he hadn't earned the bars the way so many other LT's had. And Ahern didn't think he would ever find that confidence, until he went up against something he was sure he couldn't do and actually did it.

Then he'd either be a truly dangerous soldier … or completely fucking insufferable.

Ahern grunted. Rachel Florez had the opposite problem, she was cocky. She was good and she knew it, she was beautiful and she knew it, she was smart and she knew it. An intimidating woman who'd dragged herself up from slums and deprivation to where she was today, Florez couldn't even spell 'modesty', much less feel it. Her arrogance and mouth had gotten her busted back from Chief to Sergeant to Corporal, and it wasn't the first time.

Rachel had a chip on both shoulders, and a part of Ahern – the quiet part he liked to kick in the head and tell to shut up – admitted she probably was justified in having said chips. A yakuza father and a prostitute of a mother didn't equal a nice childhood, and Florez was just a touch too hardened around the boys when it came to dirty jokes or seeing them naked – he suspected she'd sold herself when she was younger. Like most pretty women, too many guys assumed she was just looks, but her fierce intellect took that as an insult. Her temper needed work. Her ability to accept that others could beat her needed work. Most of all, her assumptions that she was the baddest motherfucker in the valley of the shadow of death really had to go.

The fact she was banging her teammate didn't help in Ahern's book. Michael Saracino wasn't really a complicated guy. He could kill you with a pistol at six hundred feet or shoot a playing card in half at a hundred yards. Turned where the narrow edge was towards you. But around people, Saracino was an ass. He'd been through some kind of hell when he was younger and more than once woken up in the middle of the night, screaming or crying. Michael's back had enough ugly scarring on it for him to draw his own conclusions. Instead of curling up or being shy, Michael instead lashed out with hard, cutting sarcasm. It was rarely funny, often hurtful or insulting, and the guy was a master at finding just the one thing to push people over the edge.

The problem wasn't his past or background. If he had been some emo, woe-is-me loser, Ahern would not have picked him, no matter how good he could shoot. No, the man just pretended his past didn't hurt or matter, and that he didn't care about what people thought of him. He had no filters and refused to care about consequences of anything he did. He was the best sniper in the world, and other than that, he seemed not to need much else.

His thoughts interrupted by an increase in noise, Ahern glanced up as murmurs around them rose in value, seeing some brass arrive and set up at a table beside the main podium. No one was addressing the gathered teams though, and none of the officers approached the mike, so he shrugged.

He returned to his thoughts on Saracino. He and Rachel had been doing shit off and on for the past year. Rachel said it was nothing serious, just some fun in the sack. Saracino made sarcastic off-color jokes. But Ahern didn't buy that shit. Saracino was broken somewhere inside, somewhere that drove him to find peace by blowing people's heads off. That kind of broken pushed everyone away. Rachel had pushed through that barrier and Ahern doubted Saracino took that lightly. If she bought it, God help the fucking galaxy, because the only thing that scared Ahern was the idea of a mentally unstable sniper on a rampage.

Rachel had one pathetically easy thing about her, she adored honest praise. Saracino couldn't bullshit to save his own life, and if he'd reached her as well as she'd reached him …

They were both needy people. Ahern didn't like needy people.

As a rule, he always felt that if you couldn't get your shit together without someone wiping your ass for you, you were a goddamned waste of oxygen. Lots of people called that cold, but Ahern called it fucking life. Crying about things only wasted time you could spend moving on and finding something to not goddamned cry about, like getting laid, smashing drunk, into a good fight, or…something. Anything.

They lived on a dying world full of toxic shit, where poor people starved every day so some fucker with six names and a coat of arms could have a holographic opera house added to his summer home. They had a government that did nothing to fix it because the founding fathers made it impotent on purpose, because some nutjob in Brazil tried to take over the world and another nutjob in Germany actually succeeded. They had colonies they abused because, hey, he who owns the guns wins the argument.

The SA had lots of fucking problems, and life sucked ass. Then you died and rotted into slime in a shitty coffin until they made a golf course over you, and some rich asshole pissed on your remains as he wondered why his slice was so bad. There was shit-all nothing he or anyone else could do about it, and pissmoaning over it like some kind of child only made you miss out on opportunities to enjoy life or make something of yourself. Doing so over some bullshit like 'people don't like me' was absolutely infuriating to Ahern.

People who demanded that their lives be validated by the opinions of others – usually strangers – completely baffled Ahern. He wasn't obnoxious about it like Saracino, but he couldn't have given less of a fuck what other people who weren't his close friends thought about him.

He couldn't do anything about Rachel and Saracino, but what they were doing out of a need for someone else's approval was going to be problematic down the line. He was lost in thought trying to figure out how to deal with the issue when another team sat down at the table next to them.

Three of the team were black males, all heavily built, all marine lieutenants. A young blond woman with bright blue eyes sat next to the biggest of the guys, while a hard-faced asian man sat across from her, eyes flicking about in narrow assessment.

The oldest-looking of the lieutenants smiled as he walked over to Ahern. "I'm guessing it hasn't begun yet?"

Ahern shook his head. "Nope. Wish they'd hurry up, the damned game is on."

The man smiled. "Lieutenant David Anderson, Second Marine, Thanas."

Ahern gave him a firm handshake. "Captain Tradius Ahern, First _Solguard_."

The lieutenant winced. "Well, hell. Didn't think we'd be up against that kind of competition. Figured the _Solguard _would already consider themselves pretty special."

Ahern snorted. "Yeah , well. We don't get the kind of action we'd like sitting pretty in Sol, you know, unless it's terrorists." He gestured towards the stage. "Any idea what the hold up is?"

Anderson shook his head, his wide features turning into a small grimace. "No, they haven't really handed down that much information since the last of the tests. Most people think we're going to do live-fire exercise evaluations. I wouldn't be worried, except two of my best people are being poached by the AIS."

Ahern raised his eyebrow at this. "Huh, you too. They're after a couple of mine."

Anderson nodded, then frowned. "I wonder if this entire event is not only for the recruiting of a special ops force, but some kind of military distaff for the AIS as well. It isn't as if they would just hold an open spy job fair, after all."

Ahern laughed at that. "That would be fucking hilarious." He was about to say something else when finally another knot of officers approached the podium.

The man in the middle was one everyone knew by a mere glance. His broad shoulders were surmounted with the broad white, gold and red of the Grand Admiral of the Fleet, and the blood red ribbon around his neck was proof positive of his identity. Everyone in the entire hall shot to instant attention.

Admiral Jon Grissom looked around the huge auditorium for several seconds before speaking. "As you were, marines." He waited for the rustle of noise to subsume before continuing.

"You are all here as part of an ongoing evolution by the Systems Alliance military. You all have been carefully vetted, examined, and evaluated. Your loyalty, intelligence, and potential are the best humanity has to offer. "

He paused, smiling thinly. "It's time we all discussed what you were really brought here for. One thing we have been doing is ensuring this group can be trusted with sensitive information. The information about to be presented is, I assure you, very sensitive."

Grissom touched a control on the podium, and a series of projectors on the ceiling fired up, coming together to throw an image of a mass relay hanging in the blackness of space. "Almost three months ago, Explorer Corps Vessel SAV Discovery performed primary relay activation on the relay in the Tiptree system. Upon relay stabilization, we discovered a G-class star with what had once been five worlds."

He clicked, and the image shifted to that of a vast asteroid belt. "The system appeared to be dead at first, like most such systems we come across. However, the SAV Discovery picked up element zero readings in multiple areas of the asteroid belt, along with faint traces on the third planet. A closer investigation discovered very troubling elements."

"The third planet had once borne life, my fellow marines. Someone bombarded it with radioactive saturation bombs and kinetic strikes until every single continental plate was broken and the mantle was exposed. The asteroid belt contains enough organic and heavy nickel-iron content to make us believe it was also a planet, one that was hit hard enough to reduce it to rubble."

"From radio-carbon dating on some of the organic material we found on the third world, this atrocity was conducted well within the last two thousand years. We have only fragmentary evidence of what happened. The other relay out of the system was … damaged. It appears some form of bomb or high-energy emissive device was used to deactivate it. There is a great deal of highly vaporized wreckage near the mass relay which we have determined are the bits and pieces of space ships."

Grissom faced them, his features iron hard. "From our best extrapolation, one race entered the system, overpowered their fleets, and then literally destroyed their worlds. Before the aggressor could escape, however, the race being attacked managed to destroy the relay leading out of the system away from us. The backlash from this appears to have destroyed every spaceship in the system as well as heavy damage to the gas giant nearby, which is missing three quarters of it's mass. It is … possible .. that the fourth planet was NOT shattered by bombardment, but by the failure and sabotage of the mass relay."

"Our scientists, the AIS, and the Manswell Security Force have all been active in the Shiva System, as we are calling it, for the past month. We have found fragmentary bodies and pieced together some rough idea of what the races involved look like."

Two outlandish shapes flashed on the screen. "The one of the left, currently codenamed Contact Alpha, is what we believe to be a reptilian carnivore. Assuming the boffins didn't get the reassembly wrong, this creature would have stood almost nine feet tall, two mouths full of teeth, and scaled hide two inches thick. Amazingly, this appears to have been the victim race, not the aggressor."

"Contact Beta is harder to reconstruct. We assume it is bipedal, like us, although the legs seem very strange and the torso is off. It has a somewhat lizard-like, somewhat avian appearance, although we suspect they are coldblooded. The teeth are needle-like and sharp, and claws a good seven to eight inches long were found, coated with metal and electronics of very advanced make. The ships they came on are too wrecked to salvage much from, but we are working on fragments of technology we found on a few corpses."

Grissom glanced back at the crowd of marines. "There is alien life out in the stars, my brothers and sisters. And they are even nastier that we are. " 

* * *

><p><strong><em>Author's Notes:<em>**

_In case you are wondering, yes, those are turians. As described in the Cerberus Files (my AU history) before their discovery by the Citadel types, turians expanded through a mix of FTL and relay travel. And they got into it with one race:_

_'Their FTL wanderings were done in overwhelming, crushing force. They would not open a relay until they had a complete war fleet prepared, and refused to colonize except with full resources. They came across two other sentient races in their expansion. The first of these, the arcaeas, engaged in combat with them and were literally obliterated. Turian warships crushed their fleets and rained asteroid strikes down on their homeworld until not even algae-analogues survived. They strip mined the planet brutally, deliberately crushing cultural relics and left the world a burning, plundered wreck , a stark warning to others. Or so the history claims. No one can find the world the arcaeas hailed from, and I suspect the turians may have a darker secret they are hiding about the ultimate fate of this race.'_

_The Turians genocided the Arcaeas, but the big lizaards got the last laugh, blowing up their Mass Relay. This killed everything in the system, although it wasn't a total blowup like the event in Arothot by Shepard in Arrival. The other end of the relay never got opened or examined by the Arcaeas, and the turians never had the chance to open it. _

_Centuries later, humans open the other end, and find the mess. When they run across turians again, this pre-knowledge is one hinge point in why my AU is different than canon. They see the turians as genocidal monsters already, and thus surrender is not seen as a feasable option. _


	4. Chapter 4

**Lions in Blue and Silver**

_The story of mystery upon the stars, and eighty percent casualty rates_

* * *

><p>Ahern had often heard the phrase 'hear a pin drop' to talk about absolute silence. To him, it was stupid – you might hear a pin hit the ground, but you certainly wouldn't hear it dropping through the air, no matter how quiet it was.<p>

The silence that enfolded the assembly hall in the wake of Jon Grissom's blunt announcement of hostile alien life, however, made him seriously reconsider that. Nobody spoke – hell, nobody seemed to breathe.

Grissom's gritty voice lanced out. "Based on a combination of wreckage found and what we extrapolated from some very degraded electronic storage media found in the system, the AIS and the Manswell Institute of Mechanical Arts have come up with very rough estimates of what we're facing. While not a single ship was actually salvageable, a few were at least structurally semi-intact."

More images flashed up, showing wire-frame models of sleek arrow shaped ships with raptor-like wings and heavy center-line hulls. "We've identified at least two models of what we think is a frigate or light destroyer, and one that's a capital class ship eleven times bigger than our heavy cruiser. For now, we're calling this a battleship, like the old naval vessels. While we have no information on weapons or defenses, the sheer size of the craft is far more than we can achieve with our understanding of material science and mass displacement."

Grissom gave a cool smile. "Also keep in mind these ships may be over five hundred years old, which means if we run into these customers in the near future they will be even more advanced."

He touched the controls of podium again, bringing up a silhouette display of a human male and the more bird-like alien. The alien towered over the human by a good foot, with wider shoulders and a thicker chest. "The aliens appear to be extremely robust. While obviously most of the corpses we recovered were in extremely bad shape – vacuum damage and blunt trauma – we can draw a few inferences."

"The raptors, as we have decided to nickname Contact Beta, are larger and we presume stronger than us. Fragments of weapons and armor found indicate they use mass accelerators like we do, but instead of ballistic propulsion of tiny bits of metal, their weapons seem to hurl small packets of compressed particles. Our scientists think this sort of weapon would perform similarly to heavy ammunition, except with an explosive factor."

"The ship wreckage shows traces of eezo, so their propulsion systems are probably similar to ours. We did get lucky and find a mostly working kinetic barrier generation device on one of their combatants that we're working to reverse engineer right now. As you can imagine, personal kinetic shields have been something pursued by the SA for some time, but our most promising models last for a few minutes and can't stop heavy or repeated fire."

"We're still prototyping and testing, my fellow marines, but we think this little device can bounce at least light rifle fire for some time before shield integrity is lost."

Grissom clicked the podium again, displaying a star-map. "Right now, the only relays left that we haven't unlocked are in the Polo, Horizon, and Shanxi systems. Given that both Polo and Horizon are towards the direction the raptors are believed to have come from, we've locked those relays down tight. The Senate is authorizing laying down new hulls to form the core of a Third Fleet, which will secure both systems and ensure anything coming through those gates gets a very warm welcome. We still plan to open the relay in Shanxi later on, but after that we will not open further relays until the Fleet is prepared."

Grissom touched the control, the image shifting to an information graphic. "The Systems Alliance has no intention of being blindsided by potentially hostile aliens. Our caution regarding the relays is not going to stop anything that decides to open them up from the far side. While we would all hope that when we make contact with aliens that said contact will be peaceful, it's foolish to assume such will be the case. We will need to be prepared, both for peaceful contact and hostile contact."

"Obviously, no one expects Marines to handle diplomacy, so you boys and girls don't need to worry about that half of the operation. If things go Brazil on us, though … then we need to be prepared for some serious war-fighting. That is why the push is being made to develop a Special Ops unit."

Grissom gripped the podium, eyes intense. "I will not lie to you, Marines. The training we have laid out is the most intense and complete program ever undertaken by human soldiers. We drew on lessons from both the American Army and the German Heer, along with insights from other past military units. The force we envision developing will have to be able to fight not only harder and better, but smarter, than regular marines, or any other human force in history."

He tapped the control, displaying a set of matte-black heavy combat armor, with white and red striping down one arm. "We've tentatively named this special ops group Code N. The group will be organized along strict cellular command structures – four teams answering to a coordinating officer, who himself answers directly to both Marine and AIS overseers for target planning and logistics. Code N will have superior access to experimental weapons, armor, and cyberware, as well as the new line of genetic modification viral therapy being tested by the University of Vancouver."

"We do this because we estimate in conflict with alien beings of superior technology that Code N would face casualty rates of higher than 80% in some cases."

Ahern winced, and saw looks of concern on many faces, but not any real shock. Despite years of study, the boffins working on the Mars Archive couldn't even understand a tenth of what the Forerunners had left behind. It was clear humanity had lots of catching up to do, and a glance back to pre-Iron times when less advanced human cultures had run into more advanced ones showed that eighty percent casualties would be an understatement if anything.

Grissom straightened. "This is why you are here. As I said earlier, we've picked the best of our forces, those with the most potential, the most drive, the best skills. All of you have tasted battle, fighting pirates, terrorists, and back-land native life. You've fought in zero-g, in radiated valleys, on worlds far from Sol. To even have made it this far, you have had to demonstrate excellence."

"But we can't afford to kit out twenty-five hundred marines as special forces soldiers, or even half that number. Based on our limited number of trainers, the cost of gear, and the realization that we can't tear all of the best and brightest out of our military, the SA command has decided we will be fielding a smaller number of special forces teams. Specifically, ten teams will be chosen to form N-Series combat teams, or NCT's."

Grissom gestured to the man standing to his right, wearing a gray-tinted version of the new standard dress uniform and the epaulets of a general. "General Izunami is with the AIS. Along with the teams we plan to recruit for service with Code N, ten teams of specialized soldiers for infiltration and recon will be recruited for Code S, the AIS military intelligence combat section that will support Code N. Functionally, the soldiers we recruit for both will need the same abilities : toughness, ability to think on your feet, flexibility, bravery, and a will to excel. Given that Code N will tend towards direct combat and Code S towards infiltration, those of you who are scout-snipers and engineers will probably end up with Code S, while riflemen and heavy weapons soldiers with Code N, but we're not making that a hard and fast rule."

Grissom glanced at the general. "For now, General Izunami will describe how we'll be conducting the selection process. You should all be proud to have gotten this far, and even if you do not get selected for this round of training, you will be at the top of the selection list the next time we do recommendations. You are all a credit to humanity, marines."

He turned. "General."

Izunami was a tall and slender man in his late forties, with a mix of Asiatic and African features. Dark slanted black eyes gazed out from a hard face, with a wide nose, a cruel mouth, and a heavy jaw, and his hair was carefully pulled back in long thin braids trimmed to military length requirements. His voice, when he spoke, was smoky and raspy, as if he rarely talked.

"Thank you for volunteering. On the tables in front of you are three forms. The first is an acknowledgment that nothing you have learned today can be communicated to anyone not in this hall on pain of death. Nothing, marines. Any violation of this is an immediate gunshot to the head from the Commissars."

He glared, then continued. "The second is a form informing you that it is very likely you may die during the selection process. It will be an exceedingly trying evolution, and while we have made preparations and adjustments to attempt to ensure everyone's survival, it is doubtful there will be no losses. The final form is a receipt of the fact that if you are sitting here, you just got moved to your maximum time in rate and pay for your rank. For everyone under the rank of Chief, this means you now qualify for immediate promotion. This does not apply to officers, but officers will receive an extra TAB accolade on your service jacket, almost ensuring promotion during the next review cycle."

Next to Ahern, Rachel pumped her fist. Ahern sighed.

"These pay raises are in effect immediately, along with double normal hazardous duty pay. Given what we're going to be putting you through, you're going to earn it, even if you don't make it."

He paused, glancing around the room.

"This force, whether you make it through tomorrow or not, is going to be the core of the strike effort against any alien hostiles we face over the next three years. Those of you not chosen for N or S service will be reassigned training commands to stiffen and increase readiness of our marines, or will be given the honor of raising and training entirely new units from scratch."

Izunami smiled. It wasn't a pleasant looking smile. "Given that some of you are not going to live to see your promotion, I suggest celebrating tonight, as long as you keep the reasons why you got promoted to yourself. Now, we will cover the evolution that will determine selections."

"There will be, as stated earlier, four phases. The first phase is a battery of physical and psychological tests that will be administered tomorrow morning. Anyone who does not meet the standards set by our doctors will be removed. This test should take no more than twenty-five minutes per person, and we should have you all cleared by noon tomorrow. Those who fail at stage one will be tapped to provide training to current marine forces."

"Phase two will start upon completion of your testing. You will be taken, as five person teams, to the edge of the Okefenokee Bayou-Bay south of here. Your goal will be to reach one of fifty ten-person shuttles located at least sixty miles from your starting point. As you all know, the Okefenokee is one of the most lethal, radiated, and dangerous environments on Earth where life is able to survive. You will be given one primary and one secondary weapon, basic medical gear, anti-radiation and anti-toxin supplies, and five days of food and water. Each shuttle is controlled by remote VI and is code-locked. It will only take off when ten people are onboard. After the last shuttle has taken off, all remaining participants not aboard a shuttle will be evacuated and will have failed to proceed."

"Out of the five hundred teams currently present, no more than one hundred teams – five hundred of you – can proceed to the next phase. Those who fail at stage two will be chosen to lead and build an entirely new marine force to accompany the newly designated Third Fleet."

"Those aboard the shuttles will be treated and allowed two days to recover before phase three. Phase three will be a tournament style elimination contest. Combat will be by team, and will proceed until only twenty-five teams remain standing. Combat will be simulated using laser-tag style weapons and non-lethal paint grenades, in the environs of a special training area recently finished in central Brazil. Teams who succeed will press on to the final phase, those who fail at this stage will be set aside as reserves for the N and S teams, and given additional training as well as granted service with the _Solguard_."

The general folded his arms. "The final phase will be one-on-one combat demonstrations and interviews with command staff. Final designation of N or S status will be conferred at that time. Given that we only expect to commission twenty teams, the remaining twenty-five marines not chosen for N or S status will receive an automatic pass through the phases during the next selection cycle, and will be given assignments with the Guard of Iron."

At that, a quiet murmur washed across the room. Service with the _Solguard_ was a vast reward, given that the ranks of that elite force were given the best training, pay, and facilities in the military. But to be allowed to work with the Guard of Iron was even more unheard of. The ceremonial force was highly trained, but even beyond that, were the personal guard of the Lords. Even a short assignment with the Guard usually parlayed itself into extremely lucrative contracts as private security or even transfers to the X presidential protection detail.

Izunami glanced around the room, which slowly fell silent. "Many of you are asking why we are making such rewards even for failure available. That is because you are very worthy of such, and because the rewards offered will aid us in stiffening and upgrading both you and the forces you are attached to. We believe that there is every possibility that there will be deaths or injuries in training, and having a large pool of applicants to replace casualties will be useful in ensuring training can move at the proper pace."

Izunami placed his hands behind his back. "One hundred of you will become the razor's edge of the sword of the Alliance. We all pray that we are wasting our time and yours, that in the fullness of time when we come across aliens, they will be friendly,and the SA can step out of an era of ruthless suppression and into one of true democracy, peace, and prosperity once more. But if that is not the case, if the raptors do turn out to be hostile,it will be you men and women sitting here today who save us all."

Grissom spoke again. "Please fill out the papers in front of you and take the electronic pad sitting next to them, along with the digital dog tag. The tag will allow us to track you and assist in recovery during Phase Two, so don't lose it. You have the rest of the day to yourselves. Report to Carran Field on the east side of the base tomorrow at 0800 sharp in undress BDU's only. Do not bring weapons, armor, or any form of equipment – everything will be issued once the examinations and interviews are done."

He glanced around the room, mouth set in a hard line. "I would suggest you all get some rest tonight, to prepare for tomorrow. It will be an exceedingly fatiguing day."

The lights came back up to full, and Ahern blinked, before shaking his head, and turned his attention to the paperwork.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Author's Notes:<em>**

_A few details that might go unnoticed :  
><em>

_- 'Prothean' is the asari translation. Until the end of the FCW, humanity called the Protheans 'Forerunners'. _

_- The Guard of Iron were special elite units that descended from the mercenary troops that conquered Earth under Victor Manswell. Think of them as like a mix of Delta Force + Marine Ceremonial Guard + rock stars. _

_- General Izunami is the father of the major that commands Vega in Paragon Lost. _

_- I've had to take some liberties with maps and star positions. Based on the galaxy map in game, Sol is actually closest to Citadel Space , far closer than Shanxi. Which makes no sense (along with Tuchanka being smack in the middle of Citadel Space one jump from the Citadel, lol). _


	5. Chapter 5

**Lions in Blue and Silver**

_The story of a really good steak, and of acid-drooling slugcats_

* * *

><p>The night before the testing began was one of mixed tension and excitement for almost all of the teams participating. While all the Marines kept in mind their need to keep the contents of the briefing quiet, they didn't have to hide the fact that they were all slated to test for Special Ops, and the majority of them hit the town, either taking the magrail to the Charleston Arcology, or the tube over to Little Jacksonville to party.<p>

Ahern's group was no different, and they met up at the Longhorn, a pricy steakhouse that had survived all the years from the twentieth century, in Little Jacksonville. The streets were full of both civilians and soldiers, but no one paid their group too much mind, and they were able to get inside with almost no wait.

The ancient building was reinforced with fresh light brown armacrete, with the inside renovated a dozen times and ending up with a mix of light sandalwood trim and heavier oak flooring, oversized round tables and a bar almost sixty feet long. Trees and other greenery flanked the open sky dining area they ate in, which also had a leaded glass mosaic overhead to cut down on direct light. Old jazz music was played by sturdy speakers, while servers in long white coats brought out expensive and rare dishes, mostly related to the old 'surf and turf' menu of years gone by.

Given that the Longhorn had one of the few licenses in the world to serve actual cattle, medically certified seafood, and honest to God pork instead of reconstructed soybean paste with protein supplements, the price for the food was staggering – Ahern's 16 oz prime rib cost over $200, and even Kyle, who ate lightly, came in at $110.

As he dug into his meal, though, the price didn't seem to matter to Ahern much. The steak was exquisite, and the rest of the food just as good. He'd never had a real steak in his life. Quite possibly nobody in his entire family had ever eaten a steak this good in the past fucking century. If he was possibly going to die in some godforsaken, radioactive swamp he wanted to have one damned good meal before checking out.

That, and some fun with Sheila Adkins in the pool ... later on tonight.

The group talked about minor things at first – catching up with a few acquaintances they saw in the meetings, the usual back-and-forth bickering between Chu and Saracino over politics, Rachel's ongoing attempts to get Kyle to date one of the countless legions of girls nearly throwing themselves at him, Kyle's ongoing attempts to get Rachel not to act like a floozy, and Ahern trying to teach Kyle how to curse like a real man – but conversation stopped when their food came. Once it slowly started back up again after the first moans of delight at the wonderful tastes, discussion quickly turned from bullshit to the near future.

Ahern was the leader of the team – even Rachel deferred to him. So made sure that while he turned the conversation to his plans to get through the trials ahead, he also encouraged them to give their feedback on his ideas. He considered himself a fair judge of tactics, and mindful of the need to balance offense and defense, but he always included the others in his tactical planning, both to make them feel like they had a part of the plan, and to honestly gain perspective from their insights.

Such meetings usually started off well and then almost always descended into a contest of insults, but Ahern could live with that. Smirking as he focused on the large and clunky flatscreen tablet with his musings about the coming fights on it, he tapped it with his free hand.

Everyone glanced at him, and he paused to swallow a bite of loaded mashed potatoes before speaking.

"We should be in a pretty good situation. Rachel and I can fuck up any other rifleman in the marines; Saracino is the goddamned Grim Reaper, and Chu and Kyle can more than fucking hold their own. Once we make it past this Ok-you-fucked-me swamp bullshit, all we have to do is show everyone why we were chosen for the _Solguard _right out of first rotation."

He sighed. "The problem isn't the second or third phases; it's the first – the swamp. Never mind that with our fucking luck, we'll get jumped by ABC War Robots, fucking deathjaws, or mutated snakes the size of a bus. The bigger mess is that we're going into something that, for once, we are not likely to be the best experts in handling. None of us have ever operated in swamp environments, but common sense tells us some things to consider."

Saracino piped up. "Swamps are _smelly_! We'll need to bring air freshener."

Ahern gave him a glance. "Your attempts at humor remain pure shitfuckery, Mike." Grunting, he continued. "A swamp will cut down on our mobility. It doesn't allow silent movement. It limits line of sight. Worst of all, it gives us no real area to setup for cover."

He gave a small nod as the expression on his friend's faces changed. Team Smashfucker, as Saracino colorfully referred to them as, had developed a fearsome reputation for speed, accuracy, the clever use of cover and evasion, stealth and deceptive tactics. Most of this relied on the fact that the entire time was fast on their feet with excellent reflexes, and the unbelievable speed and accuracy of Saracino's sniper rifle and Kyle and Rachel with assault rifles. Chu's brilliance with small unmanned drone vehicles was only matched by his ability with traps, and Ahern sometimes felt like the weak link.

A swamp, though – that fucked with literally everything they were good at. He let it finish sinking in before speaking.

"I've been racking my brains all day to figure out how we are going to pull this off, and nothing I have makes much sense. Our strongest forte is in full-fire ambush scenarios, which we won't have. Combined with the fact that it's a goddamned swamp with all the problems I just mentioned, most of our usual formations are worthless."

Rachel was eating tank-grown shrimp, probably from some sea-farm arcology in the Northwest. As she popped one in her mouth, she turned the pad to her, and once she finished chewing, spoke. "Our best bet is still to rely on what we're good at. We're going to be fast and mobile. The goal is to find a shuttle and get there in one piece. Since I doubt they'll give us a fucking map, we've got only one real choice – follow a rapid search pattern and try to find a shuttle, and then figure out how to attract a second team to the location and split."

Kyle sighed. "What kind of search pattern? Standard sweep and clear? I'm fairly sure none of us has ever negotiated a swamp before, and we don't know what patterns will work or will get us going in circles. While we are all skilled, we are usually deployed en masse with clear orders. None of us has any sort of recon or tracking skills. Nor are we familiar with any methods of finding our bearings in a gigantic swamp which, based on the timing, will be in nightfall less than five hours after we arrive."

Saracino frowned, actually getting serious. "Fuck. Low light cuts down on the range we can pick up incoming threats. And given the place is the worst shithole on the continent, you can bet all kinds of fun things will come to chew on our nuts once nightfall hits. I doubt we'll get NV gear, either. Still, we can just dig in once it gets dark, right? It's not like a goddamned gator is going to sneak up on us if we just set traps."

Kyle chimed in. "There are slugs roughly the size of a cat that like to drop from trees and have an acidic sucker-mouth to liquefy and suck up their prey. I believe there are also six different varieties of carnivorous swarming insects, and the mosquitoes carry Type B-II hemorrhagic fever along with an enzyme that inhibits clotting."

Saracino gave him a long look before shaking his head. "Man, I didn't need to fucking hear that. Thank you for tonight's nightmares, bastard." He chewed at a piece of sliced pork, glancing at Chu. "What about traps? We can do traps at night, right?"

Chu sighed. "They will be useful when we stop for the night, yes. And possibly in defending a shuttle until another team shows up…but on the move there is little I can do aside from claymores behind us, and those are as likely to maim other marines as they are to stop wildlife." Chu folded his arms. "I suspect many of our problems, both in finding a shuttle and evading the more dangerous parts of the swamp, could be solved by linking up with a good recon-focused team, save that I don't know how to identify any of them."

Saracino bit into his roll, mumbling around his food. "Shit, that's easy. We send the Boy Scout to chat up some other teams, then link up with 'em once we start." He jerked his head towards Kyle, who was eating in decorum.

Ahern sighed. "That won't solve all our issues. The problem with a pure recon team – which is usually two scouts, one heavy, and a pair of CQB's- is they're going to be eaten goddamned alive in that shithole of a swamp, Mike. There's mutated fucking alligators, eezo-dusted crocs that can supposedly bite through steel, fucked up swarms of piranha with a paralytic bite, and according to Kyle, apparently giant slugcats."

He cut some more steak, grunting. "What we need is a damned good recon team – like a non pansy-ass scouty version of us, basically. That would solve both our problems."

Yonis Chu frowned. "Those are not the only problems we face, Tradius" He lowered his voice. "Hasn't anyone asked why they'd stage this kind of exam in such a horrid place? They go on about how valuable we all are, yet dozens of us are likely to get killed in this phase, when the next two phases are perfectly safe. It doesn't add up…"

Ahern sighed, while Saracino muttered. "Let me guess – there's a secret Knight Templar base there they want plundered. Or wait, Elvis was sighted." He stuffed more food in his mouth, rolling his eyes. "All aboard the bullshit conspiracy train with your esteemed, noble conductor, the honorable Lord Chu-Chu."

Florez giggled, and then mocked a train whistle sound. Ahern shot her a dirty look and she gave an impish grin.

Chu shook his head. "Now that the idiot duo has spoken their piece…here's what I know, based on what I was able to ask my father last night. The Eastern American Group for Liberty was based out of the ruins of Tallahassee, which is just west of and quite near to the Okefenokee. The Commissars never did clean them completely out, because they've built bases and hideouts in the swamp, and they've been a thorn in the side of the SE District for a while."

He looked around at each of them. "My father said the original plan for this event, from what he gathered, was only a tournament style face off, and this was added in the last week. I think this entire first phase is a chance to kill two birds with one stone – test us in horrible survival conditions and flush out any remaining EAGL terrorists. People who go in just expecting wildlife are going to be unprepared for actual combat with human beings."

Kyle frowned. "Groups with heavy firepower and combat focus will be less effective at scouting and locating the shuttles, but more successful in fighting off the wildlife and any possible terrorist action. Recon teams might be more able to find the shuttles quickly, but are poorly equipped to deal with heavy fighting. And hybrid teams are likely to fail at both. A rather clever ploy, if you look at what you would want in your Special Forces units. Only the most skilled, flexible and capable will make it through."

Rachel drank her wine thoughtfully. "Yay, we've proven once again the SA is lead by heartless REMF's who live to get us line animals killed. Shocking. Any ideas on how we, you know, avoid being _eaten_ or otherwise dismembered while finding a shuttle?"

Ahern nodded, and then frowned, tapping his tablet to show a map of the Okefenokee Bayou-Bay. "Just one. The main sections of dry land are to the far south and east of the swamp, with a big chunk near the northwest– there's the ruins of an old university there. If there's a shuttle anywhere in this fucking mess, this Valdosta College is the only place likely to have any standing structures and places to tuck it out of sight."

Kyle nodded. "It's also a likely strongpoint for any EAGL terrorists, should Chu's suspicions be correct."

He waved a hand. "I'm not worried about them. I can't even count how many of those stupid 'Don't Tread On Me' idiots we've killed in the past year. Fire discipline is something they think you do with BBQ, and their idea of tactics is remembering to take the fucking safety off before charging in with Rambo-style bullshit. If anything I'm a lot more worried about running into old ABC robots or the wildlife than those clowns."

Kyle summed up. "So. We must attempt to locate a superior recon team, preferably tonight or before the actual testing tomorrow. We would prefer to be able to rapidly proceed overland through whatever open clearings that can be located to maximize our effectiveness, stopping to trap a perimeter and dig in at night. The ruins of Valdosta College is our primary target, given we don't know the swamp well and are unlikely to find a guide."

Ahern nodded. "Position breakdown." Kyle was like a tactical machine, sometimes, and Ahern liked the way the big man could put together the proper way to approach any situation.

Kyle finished his asparagus. "Given our skill sets and the travails of our itinerary, Saracino should act as mobile sniper, focusing on taking out distant threats and crippling incoming forces. Chu should split his duties between scouting with any drones is allowed to operate when we are stationary, and as Mike's spotter when on the move, covering our rear arc. Rachel and I will act as primary riflemen, covering the front and side oblique arcs, while Ahern should take up the position of both point man and close-in rapid defense, given his toughness and reaction time. Assuming we meet a standard recon team, their heavy should backstop Saracino, with CQB in the front and rear and scouts to the sides, assisting in both spotting and cover fire."

Saracino sighed. "That never fails to be a little creepy, Boy Scout. You sound like a damned tactical VI."

Kyle shrugged, and Ahern snorted. "Now, finding a good recon team. Off the top of your head, does anyone at all know of any good recon types?"

Rachel and Saracino looked at him blankly, Saracino speaking first. "I know lots by name and rep, but none of them personally, and you can fucking bet the dispatch guy is not going to just give out that kind of information. Plus, we have no 'in' with these people to get them to listen."

Rachel nodded. "He's right, as usual. Even if we did know a good team directly, how would be find them? I mean, I know that the Fourth Scout-Sniper of PriBeta is probably some of the best recon specialists in the SA but there's no way to know which units are participating or not without just wandering around and asking, which would take days."

Kyle frowned, but Chu rubbed his chin. "I can think of one recon person that we should be able to find pretty quick, based on her appearance, assuming she's gotten this far and didn't wash out in the paperwork crunch."

He finished his last bits of food before continuing. "Jon Grissom was talking to my father and my grandfather at the last meeting of the High Lords, and was a little amused at Dad playing up my accomplishments so much. I remember Grissom saying his own daughter was in some kind of recon specialist group, and that they just got commendations and promotions for tracking and taking out a pirate band near Thanas. He said she was surprisingly sneaky and hard to spot, especially given her coloring was like his own."

Saracino snorted. "Pale white skin, blond hair and blue eyes? Yeah, that is pretty damned rare these days, so she should stand out like a sore thumb. We could split up and just look through the crowds of marines as they come in from leave later tonight…"

Something about that description was bothering him, even as Rachel was skeptically questioning the plan. "Why would they help us?"

Chu smiled. "Because if one of them is really Grissom's daughter, EAGL will be trying to kill her, given that Grissom's assault drove them into the swamp and shattered their organization. All we need to do is reveal they are likely to be in the swamp, and they'll want all the extra backup they can get."

Rachel grunted. "Pretty slick thinking, Chu Chu. Maybe that conspiracy shit is worth something after all. She pushed her hair back behind her ears, and the motion clicked with Ahern, making him shake his head.

"Now I remember. I saw a person like that yesterday, on the team sitting next to us. Chatted with one of the LTs a bit. Fuck, what was his name!?"

Kyle piped up. "I believe it was Lieutenant David Anderson, Second Marine, Thanas."

Saracino rolled his eyes. "Do you memorize fucking everything?"

Kyle shrugged. "It's called a photographic memory, Michael. It isn't like I can help it."

Saracino stared at him for several seconds, and then shook his head. "I don't know if it's awesome that every time you fuck a chick you basically have a porn recording afterward, or fucked up because you'll never forget the time you walked in on Rachel in the shower during her period and fainted."

Ahern, Chu, and Florez all facepalmed, while Kyle grimaced. "Thank you for bringing that back to the forefront of my mind."

Saracino airly waved a fork of food around. "That's my job. Professional asshole. I'm surrounded by incompetent idiots, I can't help letting them know the truth every now and then."

Chu snorted. "Aside from killing people with your sniper rifle, you can't do anything, Mike."

"Or a pistol. Or rifle. Or pretty much anything that shoots, throws, or fires. And honestly, it's not my fault I'm this way. I was a perfectly adjusted and nice person until I started working with you all. Fucking weirdoes. Rachel excluded."

Ahern coughed. "Someone find a fucking kettle, pot is calling." Chu snickered at this, while Saracino only raised an eyebrow.

"You want some of this, Ahernia?"

Ahern rolled his eyes. "Mike, that was a pretty weak comeback. You don't know who you want to insult more, Chu or Kyle or me, and you just bounce around between insulting us all like a guy using a trampoline."

Saracino ate his bite of food and swallowed. "I know exactly who I want to insult. As for trampolines… I also know they used to call them jumpolines. Until your mom used one the first time."

Chu sighed even as Ahern blinked; thought for a minute, then went red and lunged over the table.

**X – LiBaS – X**

After dinner, Ahern walked across the various barracks squares near the main assembly point, doing searches on his cellphone. He finally managed to find the number for the transfer and information officer for off-world TDY units, and called them to find David Anderson's location. As expected, the TDY dispatcher didn't want to give out the information, but dropping a lie saying that he knew him from Thanas and just wanted to talk to 'the old man's daughter' got past the man's suspicion.

As it happened, the TDY dispatcher sent him towards the other nice restaurant in Little Jacksonville, the Broken Keg. He staked out the front of the building, waiting, and about ten minutes after he had arrived there was a commotion at the door of the restaurant. A group of five marines came out, wearing plain undress BDU's with no rank markings and simple nametag, two of them arguing over something while the third cursed at them both.

The leader of the group was clearly the biggest of the Lieutenants, with RICHARDS printed on his barrel chest. His head was shaven bald and the guy was even bigger than Kyle. Next to him, the other two black guys – ANDERSON and PELLHAM – were still big and muscular, but not quite so heavyset. Anderson had a certain refined look to him, while Pelham was still cursing loudly – and well, in Ahern's opinion.

Bringing up the rear and talking softly were the girl with the blond hair and bright blue eyes, with SANDERS printed on her shirt, and a slender but muscular Chinese man with slightly out of regs hair and LENG for a nametag. Strangely enough, Ahern caught the outlines of at least three knives under the man's BDU's.

Ahern pushed off the corner of the building he'd been leaning against and boldly walked up to the group. "Pardon me. You Sierra Recon of Second Thanas?"

The reaction was obvious. The Chinese fellow placed both hands into a martial arts posture, moving the girl behind him in a clearly protective fashion, while the two smaller black guys fell back a bit to flank her. The big man up front seemed to actually get bigger as he folded massive arms over his chest, his voice sounding akin to a pissed off avalanche or an out-of-sorts meteor strike.

"What concern is that of yours?"

Ahern smiled. "Because my team is participating in the event tomorrow … and we are good fighters, but not so good at reconnaissance."

The black guy on the right scowled. "Motherfucker, do we look like we can't kick ass on our own? Do you not see how goddamned big Tiny is?"

Ahern could not help but arch an eyebrow, turning to look at Richards with a disbelieving note in his voice. "Your fucking nickname is Tiny?"

Anderson spoke, a long-suffering note in his voice. "He is the runt of the family, he claims. Look, Captain – I think we met yesterday – we appreciate the concern, but we can take care of ourselves."

Ahern folded his arms. "Sure you can. I've got news for you guys, though – this swamp we're headed to? One of my teammates is in Family Chu. He heard the place is a fallback point for a bunch of separatists called EAGL." He gestured at the blond girl. "If I know whose daughter she is, you can fucking bet they will. And given the shit in that swamp, your size is just going to get you shot faster."

The big lieutenant glanced back at Sanders, who sighed. Her voice was clear and sweet, if soft. "My father hates EAGL because they killed my sister…it's likely the whole reason we're going into the swamp is so he can use this exercise to kill the last of them off."

The man named Pellham groaned. "And the big man didn't think to fucking tell _us_ this shit? Jesus fuck. We ATE with the stupid bastard last fucking night."

Sanders glared. "He's not stupid!"

Pellham snorted. "Shiit. Girl, in my book if you send your kid into a damned swamp and forget to fucking mention it's full of people who wanna god-stomp the shit outta you? That's stupid."

Ahern leaned back against the wall, crossing his feet at the ankles and grinning. "Did I mention my group is all _Solguard _vets, and we have Michael Saracino as our sniper? We just can't really operate in a swamp that we have no idea on how to navigate. We'd be happy to help you guys out."

The Chinese man spoke, his voice calm and whispery, but cool. "What do you suggest, Captain Ahern? And yes, I know who you are – as well as your ally Yonis Chu."

Ahern's eyes narrowed. This one looked like a snake. "Deal is simple. We team up at the outset, you help us navigate through and find a shuttle, and we keep you safe and help you fight off anything that fucks with us. We need ten people to take off anyway, and it's unlikely my combat heavy team and your recon heavy team will be going for the same slots anyway."

Richards frowned. "We were planning to roll with the Fourth Thanas."

Leng shook his head. "They are weak. This group would serve better in keeping Kahlee safe." He placed a hand on her shoulder, and she smiled at him. Anderson gave the Chinese man an upset look, and Ahern wondered what that was about.

_If this is some kind of love triangle bullshit, I'm going to lose it completely. _

The man named Pellham looked him over. "Assuming we roll with this shit…you got a plan? We're familiar with swamps from Thanas, and where the shuttles will be is pretty obvious, but we have no way of knowing shit we'll be running up against, and two of us are CQB types."

Ahern brought out his tablet, flicking it on to show the neatly diagrammed plans of Preston Kyle on the eight inch screen, accounting for two CQB troops and two scouts along with one heavy working with his own team. "I'm guessing 'Tiny' here is the heavy?"

The big man sighed, and then shook his head. "It's your call, Sanders."

The woman gave Ahern a careful, measuring look, before glancing back to the Chinese man, who slowly nodded. "Let's at least try it out."

Ahern smirked. "I'll send you my TTL code. I'm headed over to Sam's Last Stand; I can have the team meet you there in thirty to discuss this some more."

Pellham gave a crow of laughter. "I love that place!"

Anderson merely shook his head. "That isn't really the sort of place for Kahlee to be seen…."

Ahern arched his eyebrow. "I made Yonis Chu drink a beer in there. If it's good enough for the grandon of a High Lord of Sol…."

Anderson snorted, as Pell nodded. "We'll meet you there in an hour." With that, they swept on down the street, being careful to keep Sanders roughly in the middle of their group at all times.

Ahern was struck by the thought that they looked less like a coherent team and more like a bodyguard unit, then dismissed it. No need to give Chu more conspiracy theory material to work with, after all.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Author's Notes:<em>**

_As usual, the AN's will cover subtle details that might go unnoticed :  
><em>

_- In case you aren't up on your reading in my Cerberus Files, Pellham is Theo Pellham - better known at Pel some thirty years later_

_- Yes, that is Kai Leng. It's an AU. _

_- Yes, I had Kahlee Sanders messing with Kai Leng. She knew Anderson was attracted to her, and she was a little to him, but more to Kai. When Kai turned out to be a dick, she ended up chasing and being shot down by Anderson for twenty years. He was ... pretty bitter. _

_- The Broken Keg and the Longhorn are actual (and completely fucking awesome) restaurants near Camp Lejune in Jacksonville. _

_- Likewise, the Okefenoke is a real swamp, not far from where I was stationed in Georgia. And it is full of crocs, and mosquitoes we call flying teeth that will raise a good sized welt on your arm if they bite you. _

_- a 'claymore' is a stationary mine, usually set low and to one side, that explodes latterally, usually throwing shrapnel into legs and crippling it's victims. _

_- CQB = Close quarters battle, i.e, melee weapons or unarmed combat. _


End file.
